During these past few years we have witnessed the premature death of many artists in diverse fields, and in particular artists of color.  Our most recent and public loss was actor, Elizabeth Peña, dead at age 55. It is said she died of “natural causes following a brief illness.”  There is nothing “natural” about a premature death in the 21st Century.  There is an “illness” that all people of color must live with in our society, even those with their star anchored in the stratosphere - discrimination.  We are still considered “other,” and our achievements carted out for public display during the same months that celebrate imperial invasions and genocides coded as “discovery.”

We know of the public losses, and then there are the staggering statistics we don’t see; among them are the suicides and suicide attempts among Latina girls. For one of many articles on the subject see:  http://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/features/2013/07/20137217262714490.html.

As a Puerto Rican/Roma (Borikua/Gitana) I have always been keenly aware that I must work twice as hard in all endeavors, despite decades of proving twice the excellence, to get a just wage and work for which I am more than capable.  My “white” privilege ends the moment I open my mouth to introduce myself.  Whatever bigotry I experience, witness or must interrupt on a daily basis, grows exponentially for my sisters and brothers who are not as melanin challenged as myself.  The insults, exclusions, condescensions, assumptions regarding who we are and what we can do, are always just below the surface, regardless of our station in life.  We are welcomed into institutions when it is convenient  or necessary.  We can live next door as long as we don't marry your daughter. The attempts at erasure by exclusion are forever present.  It is most dangerous and insidious when as people of color we do this to each other, as we carry out the bidding of the Master in this perpetual Plantation, to gain mainstream favor, disfiguring ourselves into images of compliance to standards of beauty, behaviors, speech, dress, Europeanized male codes and rubrics of arts production, squeezing our size 12 souls into the size O attire of “Americanized” cultural “normalcy.”   When we have legacy building events and barely anyone shows up, it should not be brushed off as just par for the course.  Something is profoundly wrong and in need of attention.

Of course we’re dying young.  Either because we deny who we truly are for acceptance, or because we defy this colonial mind-set, retaining the authentic self.  Either way, we must constantly live in  the consciousness of self to survive.  What must I negotiate today in order to survive and put food on the table?  How many insults will I have to endure so that I can maintain the equilibrium of the room and not harm the innocent? Who will I need to educate today when I go to the post office or supermarket?  How will my physical and mental health be compromised by the a pervasive culture of normalized violence, which includes discrimination by intention or tacit consent?

I  have a daily practice of mental martial arts. I am forever forging tools that will allow me to fully be who I am and speak the truth without feeling the need to harm anyone in the process-including myself.  Bigotry and discrimination can be legislated against (although some legislation endorse both) but for the human mind to evolve beyond these aberrant corruptions  is not in the foreseeable future.  I love a challenge. 

I refuse, with intention, to not be a victim;  however, this doesn’t mean that I am not victimized. I simply deepen the skills with which I respond, learning from the warriors who have come before me.  

I recently walked into a venue for one of my book signings, where I was greeted by a top to bottom once-over look and a sneer.  The verbal greeting dismissive, the welcome (a misnomer) begrudging.  Apparently my look and being did not meet with approval, regardless of how well I dressed.  The accessories I wore were perhaps a little too creative and my handshake too assertive for a woman.  Clearly, I had been forced down the throat of my host by the institution in which this person is employed.

As the reading and intimate engagement with the audience went on, this person, who at first behaved as if in a hostage situation, began to relax, actually have fun, and even the camera came out.  I would make for good publicity and make the place, and this person look good.  It turned out that I was a viable commodity and a human being worthy of respect after all.   My weapon of self-defense?  I remained fully present to those who attended because they wanted to share that moment of life with me.   I shifted from anger to compassion, retained my balance, and despite the promise of a full house, with only a few people in attendance, I had a great time. Sometimes the haters will realize all the fun they're missing and life energy they are wasting.  Once in a while they come around to self-realization.  Good for them.

These offensive and complex encounters happen all the time, to people of color, in particular.  You arrive with an exemplary track record and a Curriculum Vitae that requires a U-Haul, but you must still prove yourself.  The end result is still an insult, because one should not have to “win” people over just to receive the most basic respect and courtesy.  People of color are more often than not viewed with suspicion and prejudicial doubt.  Even the most nuanced of these moments do not escape us.  The insidious are the most dangerous - the ones we might not quite catch, but our bodies feel.  The side glance, the brief look of disdain.  Our cellular memory retains them all, our brain recording every incident.  The body responds when we must constantly live in a state of hyper-vigilance.  Cortisol is released throughout the body, drenching us with toxicity from the inside out, harming our physical and emotional health, threatening our life expectancy.  We must be subversive and pro-active, guarding our health with intentional choices of what we put into our bodies, our minds, staying physically active, and asking for help when we need it.  Living in an intrinsically racist society that persists in lauding its Founding Fathers who owned slaves, and (just for starters) ignores the genocidal actions and erasure against the First 500 Nations, demand that we protect our minds, bodies and spirits.

We do our best to forgive and forget, but I am not convinced this is a favorable policy.  I prefer to call-out and interrupt, challenge and create change.   Unconditional love and the cultivation of empathy are underrated tools of resistance, as are self-care and an unflappable sense of humor.  Couple these with the creation of art and righteous indignation, unity with like minds, and we can activate change one human interaction at a time.

I still hold onto the idea that the devil is not in the details, but in their absence.  The absent details of history taught to our children.  The revisionist history that depicts people of color as victims:  slaves, coolies, pesticide drenched field workers and nothing more.  The occasional person of color turned icon and used to represent us all.  The marketing that makes sure we are shamed by our appearance so we might buy the products that will make us acceptable: coloring our hair and bleaching our skin; the scalpels that will trim our lips, hips, noses and epicanthic folds. The marketing and discrimination that make us terrified of aging and spend our hard earned money trying to reverse Nature’s course.  

Yes, we are dying young.  Ethnic cleansing takes many forms - creating cultures of addiction (decode the billboards in economically oppressed communities for starters; menthol cigarettes contain sugar and quell hunger); making synonyms of “lack” and “exploitation;” unquestioned, so-called traditions, like eating unhealthy foods as a mark of cultural identity (like you’re not a “real” Puerto Rican if you choose tofu over pork); the corralling of low income earners into shoddy housing (where cut corners benefit the corrupt);  underserved communities where toxic waste dumps are also housed near the teaching hospitals-the poor have always been expendable and subject to experiment; disrupting cross-cultural unity by creating competition for crumbs through out-dated non-profit models: you’re only as good as how much jargon and bean-counter pleasing you can write into a grant (RFP has come to mean Regurgitate Fiscal Preposterousness); we are complicit in our own demise when we only look out for “our own”  and allow the perpetuation of exploitative and unreasonable institutionalized models that feign equitable distribution by funders.  For a microcosmic look at the macro picture of economic exploitation coded as a "lack of resources" all you have to do is check out the budgetary distributions within institutions of "higher learning"  or federally funded institutions for the arts.  We already know the costs of war for profit. 

How many cities have populations where the majority are people of color?  I live in one of them, Springfield, Massachusetts.  And how many of those cities are run by an elite few, made possible by our disunity and the mutual suspicion that we have foolishly bought into?  Yes, we are dying young.  And we will continue to do so as long as we remain in isolation, silent, with each group scrambling and looking out only for their own.

Who are “my own?”  Amina Baraka a formidable artist and spouse of the late Amiri Baraka said, “I don’t care what color you are, my question is, whose side are you on?”

I can answer only for myself.  I am on the side of those who seek and work for justice for all oppressed peoples.  However long we live, let us live twice each day in the memory of those who have died too young.  Live true and with intention. 

Whose side are you on?

Please feel free to share the poem below with any individuals, organizations or media outlets that it might benefit.  I have written this in honor of the unspeakable courage of children who are forced refugees from horrific circumstances that we as a nation have been complicit in creating.  


Child of Flight

(Dedicated to courageous immigrant child refugees)


This morning it appears
the world has changed
my garden behind the kitchen
snitches
that I am too busy to live
wisteria has its way
with garage gutters
forcing them to bend
their most unbendable parts
into uselessness
a gluttonous squirrel lays flat 
in the bird feeder
sparrows to the ground
rodents to the air
yes, the world has changed


coffee drips
into the bulbous pot
a gurgling sound
lets me know 
its almost done
reminds me of death 
to question what last word
will wedge like a stone
between my soul
and love
unsaid, undone
the garden calls my name
a grackle flies into the cleanliness
of my perfect pane
stargazers bend at the neck
ask for help
I turn the window lock
as far as it will go
in the direction on “no”
a bracing rod drops from my hand
the world has changed


today a child
whose name I don’t know
whose eyes I cannot see
whose mouth wrinkles
with unbearable sadness
today a child from a place
I have never gone
and never will
looks out of her window
certain the world has changed
she gently drops the sound 
of her mother’s voice
into a jar with a firefly
says a prayer
whispers a lullaby
later, she slips unnoticed
from the mattress
that holds
a family of five
among the mangroves
and howling monkeys
between swamp
and a blanket
of biting flies
guiltily steals
her brother’s shoes
the only pair 
in the house
that is no house
walls of tin
a canvas roof 
set on cinderblocks
in case of rain
she lays her name
upon the river
smoothing it out
with deliberate hands
knows it will never sound
the same way again

she must move
in the most
remarkably undetectable way
pretends her heart
is a perfect apple of long ago
takes little bites
until she is satisfied
that every morsel is gone
a vise forms itself
from scraps of dreams 
forces her face into
the hard fist of tomorrow
spitting blood
she is unstoppable
the river threatens
she makes an offering
of tears, God hears
nods, she bites into her arm
to stop the hunger
if only God would turn into a plum
the air hurts her lungs
she knows the world has changed

I pour organic coffee
into a porcelain cup
milk swirls a dance
with a silver spoon
I check all the locks
the world has changed

the girl sharpens a stick
with teeth and rock
curses snakes with
forbidden grown-up words 
jumps ravines hallucinates
the devil of church-talk
chewing her legs
drinks from a puddle
of filthy water
shakes demons
from her head

cities, towns, countryside
no time to look beyond 
the corners of her eyes
the places I will never see
with names I will never know
fields of syringes and glass
where no one could believe
anything has ever grown
the sun hits her back
like an angry slap 
they are no longer friends

finding her way to a Sunday crowd
all Bibles and patent leather
the girl unfolds her fists
to reach, to breathe
bodies bruised and full of stones
avoid the sight of her
one, only one 
all scabs and scars
follows the arrows of her eyes
she thinks he must be an angel 
wounded on the very long fall
from heaven
he smiles like a berry
squeezed between dirty thumbs 
asks the girl her name
in such a way
that she remembers
why she left it behind

the man strokes the strap
of her handmade dress
sliding it down her shoulder
grabs her neck
like her mami did
when slaughtering a chicken
the girl freezes her eyes
crawls inside the pupils
where she cannot be followed
the world has changed today

hours move on the backs of snails
fingers poke inside the shells
time stops death 
the girls awakens 
with coins on her eyes
that burn the cruel tattoos
of being left for dead
a small onion sits in her hand
she eats it, peel and all
remembering abuela's lesson
that the medicine
of mother earth
is in the skin
of all that is good

she walks
from one country 
to another
seeking borders
finding holes
fighting things that sting
her body a booby trap
about to burst
into bloody worms
she holds it tight
and walks
the paths
of wolves
and coyotes
sleeps on the little mercies 
of doorways
tree roots
and grass
lives on a soup of dandelions and rain
she wakes, she walks
knowing the world has changed

on the best day
she plucks a feather
from a dead macaw
calls it her little friend
she knows the world has changed
pace steady, slow
fallen angels come and go
with bullets of snow
that become the only children
she will ever carry
thinks of her mother
of how angry her brother must be
that she has taken his shoes
her mouth no longer opens

she imagines her name
floating on a hammock of river
protected like a pearl
beneath her grandmother’s tongue
this miracle of thought
the mule that carries her
she bribes a mannish boy with 
the coins of her eyes
to please hide her beneath
the watermelons
even if they crush her
at least then death would offer
something sweet

a man who could be his father
but is probably not
stabs the boy in the heart
with a serrated look
the boy demands the feather
for his wound
takes all that is left of the girl
she awakens on a lifeless floor
in a place of boots 
and white cakes of hard soap
shattered throats
and unlit eyes
robbed of childhood
tender arms
cling to their own bodies
answering with tiny movements
to a singular name:

“Next!”

my coffee goes stale
the garden grows wilder
without me
my lips begin to part

surely the world will change




_________

A Case for Outrage: Is it just me?

The directive to “pay your dues” is often used as a weapon of exploitation and the manipulation of artists; code for “you’re not getting paid” by those who are paid and call the shots. Mainstream commercial theater and new “non-profit” models where “cutting edge” refers mostly to shredders where innovative, risk-taking work ends up, have become factories of fugazi; like chicken soup where there is no evidence of chicken.

My ear drums hurt from hearing actors and playwrights rationalize being uncompensated or unreciprocated without so much as barter for their services with these questionable “dues” at times elevated to “rite of passage” status. “Résumé builder” makes me laugh out loud when used on veteran artists, or cringe when reducing interns to photocopy robots and coffee runners. Open a window and get me a shovel.

I encourage students looking for internships (in any field) to ask for a written job description at the first interview. If this doesn’t scare off the interviewer, then here comes the hard part if one gets the internship: “Picking up your dry cleaning isn’t in my job description.” This might get you labeled as “difficult to work with” but it will keep your self-respect intact and your breath will never reek of ass. When you get the internship, insist on a contract that includes the job description. If requiring professionalism elicits a sour response, then decide if the price is worth the dividend.

Operating in a climate of manipulated economic scarcity (there is no lack of resources; they are simply hoarded and exploited by the elite) and nepotism, artists of color and women continue to be marginalized. The expectation is that we will be exceedingly grateful when one of our usual suspects, lowest common denominator celebrities elected to represent all of us, pops up on red carpet speaking neutral English and making perfunctory references to Latino “culture,” for example. (Last time I checked, there was more than one; and BTW, Africa and Asia aren’t countries, and First Nation peoples are not past tense.)

I must concede, however, that there seems to be a direct correlation with the exponentially growing number of Latino consumers, to the presence of our real accents in film and television. The correct pronunciation of our names is beginning to gain national acceptance. When tuning into cable, I recently heard the last name of boxer Alfredo Angulo correctly pronounced with special emphasis and repetition. Just a few years ago, that same Latina announcer might have been expected to pronounce it a little closer to: Alfreedough Ann Culo, to color within the lines of mainstream auditory pandering.

In 1899, the year following the Spanish American war, the U.S. military government changed the name Puerto Rico to Porto Rico to accommodate the average “American” pronunciation. It was changed back to Puerto Rico by the U.S. Congress in 1932. When will we take back San Pedro (San Pee-dro) Montaña (Mon-tah-na) Los Angeles (Loss An-jealous) and all the other names bent and trashed to accommodate and assimilate? Pagans have had to stomach Halloween for Samhain. Women have to spend more time decreasing the size of their voluptuous bodies than increasing their knowledge of ancestral matriarchal societies. Asians and Pacific Islanders have been mono-culturized back to the days when “Chinaman” was used with impunity as the broad stroke that slapped their faces. First Nation Peoples are reduced to feathers, braids and buckskin. Then came Bollywood, and I still hear the repugnant question, “feather or dot?” Most recently, Johnny Depp broke my heart with a feather. For those who don’t know, Tonto in Spanish means “fool.”

Racism and discrimination in commercialized theater (and all arts that are more product than soul) are nothing new, and certainly not past tense; the window dressing has simply improved. Those who despair for work and acceptance will use terms like “great strides” and “its getting better” accepting crumbs at the banquet for the dubious honor of being in the room.

When an anglo actor asks me how to “do a la-teeno accent” and I ask why she would think of taking a role away from a Latina actor, I get a blank look and am asked again. I explain the concept of creating a more even playing field, and the look is blank. I am then asked if a Cuban accent is different from a Puerto Rican accent. I step outside for air; I’m tired of having to educate people who suffer from willful ignorance. We need a 12-Step Program for that one. “Hello, my name is______ and I am an asshole.”

I’ve often witnessed theater folks demure in the face of racism or other forms of bigotry for fear of retaliation in a field where six degrees of separation is more like two degrees and a rumor. Theater revivals of crowd-pleasing plays and musicals replete with ethnic stereotypes sell seats. We are asked to put it in the “context of its time”, as we are petted and gazed at with pity. Poor things that we are, we just don’t understand the business or the good intentions. I smell sulphur. While we’re at it, why not revive Al Jolson and turn that into a musical? The plantation mentality prevails, with an increasing number of field slaves moving into  the house. Politeness and submission pay off-especially if you are (or you produce) a product that can sell on a sound-bite or a single word or image. Wicked of me, I know.

If you are a person of color who indulges mainstream U.S. audiences’ need to fetishize and ghettoize, you’ll also have an easier time in the marketplace. You’re bound to fit into somebody’s season; after all, there’s always a need for at least one of us in the playbill to make producers and funders feel at ease and virtuous. Don’t go making trouble and ending up on a “blacklist.” It won’t matter how talented you are-if you’re “too much” of who you truly are you’ll be lucky to make it into the chorus.

Another term that makes me fidget is “emerging artist.” At the age of nearly sixty, I was told that offering a free performance keynote for a major corporation would be “good exposure” for me. I burst out laughing, had to explain why, named my fee and that was the end of an otherwise very polite conversation.

Years ago I was offered a free trip to the outskirts of Moscow in exchange for two weeks of giving free advice and workshops. I would be compensated by meeting other exploited artists for this “international exchange.” I asked the person offering this residency if they worked for free and without benefits, which of course, this person did not. They were, in fact, over compensated. The audacious response to me: “When would you ever get another chance to go to Moscow?” revealing the deeply predatory nature of the invitation. I was chosen with an expectation that I would say yes with a happy dance. How could someone like me ever be able to achieve such an opportunity on their own? When I said I knew what two weeks of my expertise and time were worth and gave my counter offer, I became persona non grata in perpetuity, all ties with me dissolved. I didn’t burn that bridge, it was blown up before I could even get there.

I understand that one has to devote time to education, craft and professional development. I also understand that some artists are slow burners and have to expect a wage that is commensurate with their level of craft and talent. However, if at fourteen, for example, you are a virtuoso, then you should be treated and compensated as one. Surgeons are not expected to carve around the pituitary for free, and plumbers don’t unclog the aftermath of a bacchanal for bottled water and a certificate of appreciation.

Mediocrity is the new black. We feel it, we think it, we know it, we say it, - venting over coffee with our trusted companions. We walk out of theaters feeling desolate and unsatisfied wishing we’d spent the ticket price on groceries instead. Sometimes we lie to ourselves and focus on the moments that worked, decoding in our heads because it never made it into our souls. We are especially susceptible when people whose opinion matters to us are bamboozled and sing praises of work that is derivative, classist, racist or simply a little too familiar. When audiences don’t see themselves represented very often, they will be happy with a platano or a collard green, no matter how vacuous  the storyline, how bleached the tale. That dread fear of retaliation, of being labeled “difficult” “crazy” “angry” keeps too many artists from doing the work that truly lives in their souls and speaking out, becoming bystanders, or worse, accomplices to bigotry by exclusion, dumbing down and artistic cowardice.

I am insulted by the concept of “colorblind” casting. Why would anyone wish to be blind to that which should be welcomed, embraced, celebrated? I do believe it should always be the best person for the job, but the search needs to be wide and deep, not hinge on a “name” or cronyism. And please, no more Mickey Rooney having Breakfast at Tiffany’s-we have our 21st Century versions. Racism isn’t being cured; the symptoms are masked by spin doctors.

Anyone who is awake can see it, feel it. As a fair skinned Latina/Roma, I often see the shift once I say my name correctly pronounced. I’m a double agent; I pass by default  (I have NEVER wanted or chosen to ) until I open my mouth. I very quickly move from colleague to charity case as the conversation turns. “Oh, where are you from?” and the subsequent response when I say “the Bronx”. “No, I mean, where are you from?” I won’t let them off the hook; they have to ask. I learn a great deal about the person by how they ask and respond. I’m always amazed at how many cannot pronounce my name and ask me if I have a “nickname.”  I gave into a nickname in my younger years, but since then I don’t abbreviate any part of myself for anyone. Want to know me and have interaction beyond this fleeting moment? Easy start: make the effort to pronounce my name correctly. As a society, do we really need spineless diversity officers to teach everyone how to walk on eggs? Personally, I have yet to meet one with any real moxie who has been able to keep the job past two years - and I’ve met quite a few.

On a recent visit to NYC, I was in a theater district restaurant. It came up that I am Roma on my father’s side. The waiter, an actor, stuck out the palm of his hand. I was so excited, thinking he was asking to slap him five; a fellow gitano, perhaps? I quickly realized he was asking me to read his palm. I rolled with it, and left him breathless with the accuracy. I don’t read palms; I read people. Is there any wonder how he might depict a Roma character? The worst part is, he’d most likely get away with it.

The claws of bigotry dig into bone, and a smarmy paternalism makes the boo-boo of the woo-woo go away. “Oh, you’re Porto Rican? I love tacos!” Ah, the glow of self- satisfaction and feeling of camaraderie. Those of us surrounded by a standing ovation audience when we’re the only ones sitting are plagued with self-doubt. That feeling that “this is crap” makes us think we’re bitter or jealous. A bad case of sour grapes. So we check in with ourselves again and come to our senses. “No, that really was crap.” When we dare to express it aloud, we find the others who see it too and we feel less alone. However, it needs to be said OUT LOUD where it can be heard by those producing it. Oh, oh. I just heard my phone stop ringing.

When those who have achieved balance on a stable upward rung, abuse their positions with exclusionary or polite “insider” club behavior, they contribute to a climate of fear and mediocrity. How many ways can you spin Medea? We can now rap Shakespeare. Old news. Regurgitation is also competing as the new black . The television series “Smash” made time stop somewhere between character shoes and Doc Martins. Is that the world we still live in, some iconic nightmare of a Great White Way of long ago complete with casting couch?

The insular, the covetous, the petty, self-serving and scared. The ones who can’t get the union card because they can’t get the audition. The ones who refuse to sell out, who take the risk of writing edgy, intimate, gritty, intelligent plays but won’t play along. The actors who won’t play to the stereotype. The ones who play to the middle, they get along just fine. Safe, confusing, nonsensical plays. Class riots over wine and cheese. Trite and polite. When we laud what is okay, we degrade what is excellent. Always staying with who you know and what you know and doing what you’ve always done, will die out with your audiences. They’re loyal, not immortal.

To the keepers of the measuring cup I say: shove your pie. I’ll bake my own. Thankfully the ranks of those who are self-producing are growing. We’re starting our own theaters, producing our own and each other’s work, sharing resources, information, networking, finding international venues, re-framing where theater can happen and diversifying its purpose in the service of humanity beyond entertainment.

Will the visionaries of today become the gatekeepers of tomorrow? Class will forever be an issue in a capitalist nation-unless we embrace what we intuitively knew as children: everything tastes better when we share and there is more than enough to go around. Stand up to bullies. Take heart, fill our quivers with Action, not the passivity of “Hope.” Maintain our humor and sense of wonder, activating both in life and art; care more about people than profits, and then, perhaps soulful, inspiring, life-giving work will become the new black. 
_________
Special thanks to Charlotte Meehan, Keli Garrett and Leah Poller for their feedback during the writing of this blog entry.